Spiritum memoria, Spiritum animalem
by torchwoodtimelord
Summary: Reincarnation!Fic - Sherlock and John find themselves living a life in repeat. But as ideas and social norms have changed with time, they discover they are no longer the men they once were to one another. John's biggest secret hidden to all but Sherlock, they struggle to figure out just who they are, and how much they really need one another. - Freeform writing style.


**Title:** Spiritum memoria, Spiritum animalem  
**Series:** N/A  
**Fandoms:** BBC!Sherlock (with hints of Original Canon Sherlock and Granada!Sherlock)  
**Pairings:** eventual Johnlock (slow progressing)  
**Author:** TWTL  
**Beta:** none

**WARNINGS:** angst, and ideas that start and then run into nowhere.

**MISC:** I am American, and there are bound to be Americanisms. This is primiarily a BBC!Sherlock fic, but with the occasional reference to canon and the Granada series (as I've recently watched the Brett/Burke and Brett/Hardwicke series from beginning to finish four times non-stop). This has NOT been beta'd, because my normal beta couldn't sit through it due to the reichenfeels section. The segments are brief in some places and long in others. Don't like it, too bad. It's how it worked out. Some parts don't even make much sense (such as the Moran bit). I may or may not go back and write side drabbles or something for these parts. I dunno, and it's not currently planned. This was completely stream of consciouness over 5 days and nights so... some ideas just sort of go nowhere all of a sudden. It happens. See end notes for latin and other stuff.

**DISCLAIMER:** Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and all other Sherlock characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and/or the BBC. And if it's something you don't recognize from canon, it's probably mine.

* * *

The phenomena was called in these modern times _spiritum memoria_. In past ages it had been named many things. Past Lives, witchcraft, nightmares, visions, dreams, de-ja-vu, messages from God, and a vast array of other wild claims. It was only in the last 100 years that science had finally started to label things. Research them. Document the outlandish claims of a homeless man claiming to be King Henry the 8th. Or of a powerful president proclaiming that he had once been a poor matchstick girl in the Cornish countryside, and thus feeling that it justified his choice to wear skirts in his private hours.

In modern society, it was commonplace to refer to one's spiritual bonds with labels such as "Spirit family" and "soul mates". Yet with any classification system... there were still some things that were labeled as taboo. Or at least not talked about in polite company. And it were these such labels that could, and often did, alienate family members, friends, and lovers alike from one another should such things become known.

In the Watson family, it was clear such a person was present in the unit. Harry had always been Mildred and Arthur's favored child. Closer to her than their son. On some level, John had always known he was unusual. He'd always known his family wasn't really meant for him. Because Harry and Mildred and Arthur Watson didn't belong to him. And he didn't belong to them. It was just the way of things from the time he was five. When the dreams he didn't understand started. When the names, yes names that he should never have been able to know, started being listed in his head. Carefully scratched into his waking mind and tucked aside for later.

Unlike most people, his problems had begun early on in life. The _spiritum memoria_, what science had deemed a side effect of the soul's repeated reincarnation over a long period of time, usually did not surface until the late teens. It was the reason children were not presented with society's approved theory via seminar until they had nearly completed their educations.

So John didn't really have much choice but to cope and hope for the best until someone could give him straight answers. It was not easy, suffering nightmares that weren't his. Watching people he didn't know but knew in his heart were more important than the sun... die before his very eyes. And as he grew older, and suppressed these things within himself, he became filled with bitterness. With regret for things he could not change. And angry. Angry that unlike the other children he grew up with he had been cursed with an early awakening.

So he threw himself into his studies. Threw himself into med school. A place he had access to the latest theories, information, and anything else he could ever want to know of the human race's widespread curse. His contact with his biological family was limited at best. Only Harry even bothered to pop up every once in a while, assuring him she was still alive.

It was during med school he met another like himself. Mike Stamford. Instantly John thought back to that ever growing list of names - names that he shouldn't have been able to remember. No one ever could recall names. Only flashes of feeling. Snatches of scent and the slight pressure of a touch. But never sounds. Never names. But John... different, odd, quiet and so filled with anger and self loathing, could. And when he checked his mental list, he found no sign of this man. So he resigned himself to the fact of happy coincidence that he just happened across another who'd been burdened far too early in life.

It was Mike who showed him the studies. His silent acknowledgement that he knew John's worst secret. But he'd been kind, and showed no prejudice against the ones that were just a little... off the mark in their habits and their ways.

John hadn't wanted to believe it. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge that, what he had read, could have been the correct answer. It would explain some of the pieces rattling in his head from lives so long past, but he didn't want to admit he could be one of them. Mike had suggested he go into the military after graduation. Since it was clear he and his family were not close, and he had nowhere else to go. But also, Mike had said, as a way to hide himself. It was a perfect way to explain his rigid discipline. His ease with following and understanding procedures and orders. His stubborn loyalty to those who had earned it. His affinity for protecting people while hovering on the maddening edge of rage and violence - as if waiting for an order to hunt or attack or even...

He was an animal. And the military was, as it turned out, the perfect place for him to hide for a time. The perfect excuse for his anomalous behavior once he returned. He could simply say "Oh, well, you know, when at war..." or "First thing you learn is to follow orders."

So that's exactly what John Watson did. If only to keep anyone from suspecting that he was one of the shunned _spiritum animalem_.

**o0o**

Life really wasn't that different when John came home from war. More nightmares added to his already troubled mind. But he'd met a couple of people in his time as an army doctor that were like him. They'd been left to die out on the field - had it not been for John risking his neck to go out and drag them back in (sometimes in more than once piece) they certainly would have.

Often used as fodder for the war machine - a way to rid the human race of those who came not from the human karmic wheel but from the primal, instinct driven world of the animal. To prevent their small number from growing larger. Oh, he'd heard the slurs his fellow soldiers would use for those who could not hide as well as he. And inwardly he'd cringe, and be reminded of the dangers should anyone notice that he had a particularly stronger sense of smell than most. Or could hear just a pitch or two higher. Or noticed the difference between his honor bound duty and his overzealous protectiveness.

So he did what he could. Those that died he tried to make them comfortable. Tried to help them in their ease into the next stage of their existence - where ever that may be. Some came close to learning his secret, but never could unravel the peculiarity of Captain John Watson - nor did they dare accuse a superior officer while under his knife.

But once back in England, in London, he had only the nightmares and the pain of his injuries to keep him company. And the distant memories of a life among many that he wished so hard he could have again.

**o0o**

He'd only just met him. Had racked his brain, as he did with every person he met, for similarities. For familiar traits and most of all... a name. Before he could complete his thought, he realized the man hadn't given it. And he was leaving the room.

"That's it? We've only just met, and now we're going to look at a flat? I don't even know your name?"

Oh but when the man spoke, when John could feel the man's gaze linger just a little too long, he thought he'd just won the lottery. He popped out the door, but then-

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

The moment he was gone John didn't even move. He didn't make a sound. He didn't even tear his gaze away from THAT SPOT where that man had just been, peeking around the door. He was only dimly aware of Mike nearby, watching him closely. "John?"

It took a few more tries before John came to himself again, but forced himself not to keep staring at that door.

"John what the bloody hell's the matter with you?"

"That's- You didn't tell me- Christ that's him! That's HIM! Why didn't you tell me his name before you dragged me here? I could have at least prepared myself for that!"

"Who?"

"Who?! You know who! That... that insufferable bastard I kept telling you about in med school. That bastard who plagued my nightmares after we did that autopsy project on that disgusting-"

"Oh! Right! The beekeeper case study! You couldn't sleep for weeks after that, complaining about some ridiculous old man tormenting you with his bees every time you went to visit or some such nonsense."

"And that was him! Just now! Just running off to-"

Mike couldn't help but start laughing. He was the only one John had ever allowed to get away with poking fun at him about these things. Especially after the awkward Mark Morstan incident before John was shipped off to war. "Sorry, I must've forgotten. I mean, it's been years since I've seen you. And nobody thinks about names since nobody-"

"I'm well aware of that," John growled, yes actually growled, in frustration. But after hearing the sound himself, he quickly bottled it back up. It wouldn't do to be heard in public showing his true nature. "Oh God, what the hell am I going to do..." He leaned against the table, his cane hanging off the edge as he let his head droop down in a way Mike had often described as his "hanged dog" look.

"Well, you do still need a place to live. And since you already know what he's like, apparently having been stuck with him before, might not be that bad. Just go have a look 'round the place. And, you could always move out when you've got a proper job. Not like you have to stick around."

John closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. If only he could allow himself to believe Mike's words. It's not that he hated the man, oh no. Right now they'd only just met. And he couldn't hate the brilliant, if often difficult and eccentric, best friend who lingered at the edge of haunted dreams and, to be honest his most treasured of all the accursed past-life memories. He knew if he went to go look at that flat, chances were he'd never leave it. He'd stay, right where he knew he was supposed to be. Where he belonged. But this other man, this other, newer Holmes was so alike yet unlike the man before. And he didn't know if he could stand it, day after day, remembering things that more than likely this other man couldn't.

"Well?"

"I'll go," he said at last. Because he already knew the answer the moment he'd figured it out. He just hadn't been expecting the parallels in his current and former life to extend beyond himself. "Besides, he's so smart it makes him incredibly stupid when it comes to self preservation. Not like I've got much of a choice do I?"

**o0o**

Months had passed since that fateful meeting in St. Barts.

He was writing his blog, having already posted "A Study in Pink" which to be honest had caught him by surprise, and had paused while writing up another. So similar, yet with marked differences, to the first case he had, or rather, the Other John Watson and the Other Sherlock Holmes, had worked together.

He'd been thinking about that off and on, wondering if their lives would simply be a repeat of what came before. Then came the case he was going to title "The Blind Banker". When he really sat and picked it apart, bits and pieces had a familiar flavour, but strung together into a new package. A new story. The world had moved on since the Victorian era, and so too had crime and its various methods and secret codes.

He sighed, and set his hands to the keyboard again, all the while not noticing the hawk-like stare following his every movement from the experiment taking place in the kitchen. It would be a while before he got this one finished, still trying to learn to decipher Sherlock's handwriting.

That was another difference, John had noted. Right from the start, before they had even gone into the flat, he'd called him Mr. Holmes. Only to be corrected and told to call him Sherlock. The man who could see everything, knew everything about everyone hadn't known how awkward it was for him fitting his mouth around the name. Strange too, was to hear him called _John_ and not simply _Watson_.

He shook these thoughts out of his mind and set back to trying to read the handwriting. "You do know, Sherlock," he said loud enough for his friend to hear, "that not even doctors write this badly."

"You don't need to type them up," Sherlock said putting his eyes back to the microscope the very second John started to turn around and look at him. "I prefer to keep them in my files."

"And I told you they should really be typed up so you don't have to wreck the flat every time you need to look up some ancient case from five years ago. I'm tired of getting shouted at for losing your papers when you're the one who's lost them in the first place."

**o0o**

There hadn't been a case in ages. John had been doing the locum work, of course, but it was barely keeping them in groceries during this slow period. And Sherlock was damn close to driving him up the wall with his experiments.

It was on one particularly rough day that John had come home with the intention of having a nice shower, a nice cup of tea, and maybe some crap telly before bed, when he discovered Sherlock had used every single cup, mug, and glass in the flat for some ridiculous experiment involving water and talcum powder.

"I need a cup."

"Go ask Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock had said without even looking at him.

"No."

"I thought you needed one. Or did you simply want-"

"You didn't have to use all the bloody cups in the place!"

"Actually, I did. I ran out of cups and had to use the kettle, two pots, and a vase. I'm testing the dissolving point of different brands according to water to salt ratio as well as volume of powder in the-" Sherlock stopped himself in mid sentence, looking up with a frown as he blinked at a rather frustrated, growling John Watson.

"I see," he said and left it at that. "The green mug on the counter is still viable. It was my control for the experiment, but as I've already taken down the vital data it no longer serves a purpose."

John put a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes as he drew in a deep breath. The growling soon stopped as suddenly as it had begun. "Sorry. I just... You never stop to think these things through. Just... next time, leave at least ONE dish alone. For me. In case I need it."

"Of course."

The tone was one of obvious dismissal, and John was grateful for it. He hoped his slip up hadn't been noticed but... Who was he kidding. It was Sherlock. Of course he noticed. He ALWAYS noticed.

**o0o**

In their time at Baker Street together, neither had spoken of the affliction that plagued mankind. The _spiritum memoria_. At least... not until after the Pool Incident, as both men tended to call it. It was a month after that night when, to John's surprise, Sherlock was the one to mention the one subject that had never been brought up between them (though John's love life apparently was a topic of great interest to the consulting detective).

"You didn't seem offended when Moriarty called you my pet."

"Well, I was still covered in semtex at the time. Not like I could really think about much else."

"You hide it very well."

John looked up from his book, cocking his head slightly as he stared across at the man in the opposite chair, one leg crossed over the other and a folder open in his lap.

"It was the name. You knew your life could end at any second. You seemed almost... resigned to it. Yet the puppet master revealed himself... The very instant he announced his name something was different. In that split second you went from acceptance to anger."

"How did you even-"

"You remember things differently than most. What is it?... Perhaps you retain written information. You see past the blurred edges of the memories and focus on the smaller details. Book titles, street signs. Names on a document."

John looked back down at his book, not wanting to meet such an intense stare that threatened to undo him. "Sounds," he said. "I can hear sounds."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone's memories have sounds."

"Specific sounds then," John said, willing himself to keep looking at the book despite not reading it any longer. "Yeah, everyone's got sound. The normal big stuff like explosions or fire or rushing water. Groups of people chattering. But I've... I can pick out the small stuff. Individual logs crackling on that fire. Or the direction of the explosion. Or even a single conversation in a crowded room. And... names."

"I see," Sherlock said, looking back down at his folder before closing it and setting it to the side. "And Moriarty was one of those names you recalled. Yet you chose not to mention this to me?"

"Just because I remembered a name from some distant past doesn't mean I knew who or what it was. For all I knew it could have been code. Or the name of a pub. Or hell, a new brand of biscuits." It was a lie, of course. Whether or not Sherlock would believe it... that was another story.

He was relieved when Sherlock stood, presumably to go abuse his violin or, if John was really lucky, annoy someone else for a change. However, before his friend left him, he glared down at him. Causing John to let out an involuntary rumble from the back of his throat. "We will come back to this discussion," Sherlock had said coldly. "And you will answer my questions."

John licked his lips and narrowed his eyes in challenge, squaring his shoulders despite his sitting position. "Go ahead and try to force me Sherlock," he snapped. Not harshly, no. No matter how hard he'd actually tried he could never force harshness into his words to Sherlock. Not really. But they were still frustrated and defensive all the same. "The last person who's tried never came home from Afghanistan."

Sherlock blinked, but that was the only visible sign that John's words really hit. Really sunk in. "I'll talk, but on my terms. Not yours," he added, forcing his attention back to his book. He waited until Sherlock had finally left, his bedroom door closing hard behind him, before he allowed himself to relax.

**o0o**

Irene Adler was dead. Janine had broken up with him. And Mycroft, the insufferable bastard, implied it might be a danger night. Mrs. Hudson had been seen to, and Lestrade had gone home to the missus (though whether she would come home to him was another matter entirely).

It was quite late. Sherlock had packed his violin up hours ago. The bells had tolled and now... Now there were just a few short hours left before the sun would rise.

"You don't have to stay up all night. You've searched the flat. Good job keeping my sock index straight this time. And found nothing. I don't need some bloody guard dog keeping watch."

"Yes you do."

"Then make yourself useful and entertain me."

"I'm not a performing monkey."

"No, you're not. I'd wager you're actually rather more the canine variety. Unsure what breed, but more than likely one of the larger ones. Very loyal, territorial judging by the suspicious looks you give Mrs. Hudson after she's been in your bedroom. And then there's the growling. I've catalogued five distinct growls coming from you."

John sat silently, frozen to his seat in mortification as Sherlock continued to tick off every little thing he had noticed, leading him to the conclusion that John Watson was, in fact, not really meant to be walking upright with the rest of the human race. When he found his voice at last, it was a hoarse croak, and only one little word which much to his surprise had not been _how_ but rather, "When?"

"I was suspicious shortly after we began our arrangement. Very loyal, too loyal. A trait only seen in those who've jumped the tracks a few times and dabbled in the baser karmic wheels. Most common among those who've spent time as canines. They were confirmed when I was experimenting with the talcum powder-"

"The cups," John managed to croak out. And Sherlock nodded.

"You growled at me. Only one other person I've ever met has done that. And she sleeps with Anderson." At this, Sherlock's eyes seemed to light up with some sort of manic glee at the thought.

John coughed, trying to see if that would help him speak a little better. "No wonder I can't stand her," he said, his voice a little steadier. "So... That's why you started to..."

"I wasn't afraid you would attack John if that's what you're thinking. You wouldn't even dream of it. However, to prevent you from storming off and potentially ruining my experiment... Yes. I did sacrifice the control element to appease your volatile nature."

"I- Well I mean-"

"You hide it well," Sherlock said calmly. "I doubt many others have taken notice. No doubt you fit in with the military quite well. Which explains why you were so bitter about returning. It meant you had to reign in your instincts and function in normal society again. Though with the added excuse of military training, and an active war as well..."

John gave a weak smile, reminded of Mike's prodding to get him to join up in the first place. He'd been annoyed, but his friend was right. It was, at the time, exactly what he needed. Where he needed to be. Without it, he wouldn't have gotten to where he was supposed to be. With who he knew he was supposed to be with... as insufferable a bastard as he was.

"So you don't mind it then?"

"Why would I mind? So you occasionally make yipping noises in your sleep, and growl at the postman. I don't see how that is relevant. Like I said, you hide it well. Moriarty noticed it, but that's only because you acted on it. I highly doubt he would have commented had you not attempted to blow him up with you."

"Sherlock-"

"The fact that you've spent some of your lives as a dog made no difference to me in the 19th century, and it makes no difference to me now. So you might as well get past it and utilize these traits in a productive manner conducive to The Work."

The doctor sat staring at him in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing in a grand impersonation of a fish. "I- How- You- But-"

Sherlock picked up a nearby book and opened it to a random page. "I told you once before, I remember all of my cases. I hadn't expected Jefferson Hope to put in a second appearance in the same manner. Though he did present me with more information as to his process and method than in our previous encounter." He turned his eyes to the book and began to read. "No doubt you noticed the similarities and difference in the two cases as well."

Awkward silence settled, and remained in the flat until the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon. Sherlock had gone through four books in that time, becoming bored with them all and grabbing the next before finishing any. John, after checking the time and deciding it would be a good idea to get some sleep on his day off from both the clinic and Sherlock's cases, stood to go upstairs.

"John," Sherlock asked from where he was draped over his chair, a book resting open on his chest. Ignored and unread. "I must insist on asking... Have you encountered your wife yet?"

"Ah... Which one?"

"The only one who could ever put up with my dragging you away from her."

"That one. Uh... Well... Yeah."

"And yet you did not marry Mary?"

John rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "It... wouldn't have worked out."

"Why not? I had thought she was your favorite of the lot."

"Well, might have had something to do with the fact that Mary wasn't Mary. She was Mark. Though when I met Mark, I didn't realize he was in drag."

He could hear Sherlock's laughter all the way up the stairs and could not get to sleep until the man had settled down a little under forty-five minutes later.

**o0o**

After the Irene case, John felt sorry for Sherlock. Before, she had simply managed to get away, to escape. This time, with such a modern world, she had crumbled. She had pushed too far, tried too hard. And this time she was within the grasp of Moriarty. A name that, this time, John could put a face to. Who's power did not extend merely to the continent, but across the entire globe. Far more deadly, far more angry and power mad than ever before.

Learning of the fate of Irene, whom had worked in league with Moriarty, it only strengthened John's resolve. Where before he had been the ever loyal friend, the trusty assistant and occasional marksman, he now made it his mission to do just as Sherlock had suggested.

Put his innate _spiritum animalem_ instincts to good use. And his first order of business - to step up his best friend's protection. To ensure that no one, absolutely NO ONE got as close as The Woman had to Sherlock Holmes. If only for the madman's own safety.

**o0o**

From the moment Henry Knight had said the word HOUND and Baskerville in the same conversation, John knew what was coming. And so did Sherlock, who reminded John that yes, he does in fact remember every single case... whether he's solved them in this lifetime or another. It was a testament to his capacity to retain information. And the true vastness of his knowledge that he was able to draw and fully rely upon at least two complete sets of memory at once when most others would have succumbed to the madness such attempts caused.

Neither man had expected the case to end as it had. They hadn't expected Stapleton to actually have nothing to do with the hound... but Sherlock was very amused by the Bluebell the Rabbit mystery.

They were on the train, heading back to London when John, for the first time, brought up that awkward subject that bound them. "When we met, did you know?"

"That you were you? Such a boring question."

"Did you? You can't remember names, otherwise you'd have remembered your own arch nemesis from the start. Well... at least from when Molly brought him in to see you."

Sherlock was silent, sitting with his hands pressed together beneath his chin in thought.

"Well?" John pressed.

"No. I was curious, of course. The similarities between Watson and yourself are quite fascinating. The limp, which for him was very real, as you know. But it came and went with the weather. The fact that both of you served in the same part of the world, and were sent home for the same reasons was also a potential signal. I was still unsure until you actually showed up the next day. Further confirmation came with that atrocious blog of yours. Seriously, a Study in Pink?"

"So you separate me and... You think of us as two different people?"

"Does that surprise you? Just because the soul is the same does not necessarily mean they are copies of one another. Similarities exist, true. But Watson's disapproval and yours are quite opposite. He would allow Holmes to get away with certain... habits. You, on the other hand, have not only forbidden it, but you have taken the means from me. Openly shouted at me, and then there was the first and last danger night I experienced since arriving in our rooms at Baker Street. Your tolerance for my behaviour is... not as lenient as before. Your writing has become less romantic, but also more akin to tabloid journalism at the best of times. And your constant dating!"

"It's for your own good," John snapped in disapproval. "And you only listen to me when I shout at you. Usually."

"Not true. I always listen to you. I may not heed your advice, but I do listen."

John was stunned, but only momentarily as he returned to the conversation. "And what's wrong with my dating? They never last long, and when you say jump I do. Unlike some people, it's a little harder for me to control THAT particular part of my personality."

"You never could keep it in your pants. At least then you had the tact to only comment on how pretty they were rather than boldly whisk them off to your bedroom."

And with that, the conversation ended. Sherlock had taken out his phone and busied himself with whatever it was he did on their long train rides. And John was left staring out the window, adjusting the information in his own mind regarding their entwined pasts. John wasn't the only one who was different than before. He had indeed grown bolder, more active in both their cases and life. He'd pushed and pushed until finally Sherlock, enigma wrapped in a mystery as he was, finally allowed him past the barriers he had spent so long building up against the world.

But the differences in Holmes and Sherlock were many. And much of them John saw as detrimental. He was far more extreme in his black moods than Holmes ever was. Far more creative in his self destruction as well. Though more enthusiastic and excitable and curious. Sherlock saw the world with a young man's eyes and craved still more whereas Holmes had learned all there was, at that time, to know. Had even invented methods and poisons and procedures of his own. Holmes was bored, but companionable all the same. Sherlock was...

Well, he was certainly colder. Even their closeness was distant compared to what John could remember from the past. But there was something else behind his madman's defenses. Some greater purpose, he was sure of it. If only he could crack the code, decipher the mannerisms and actions and loaded questions...

"You're staring at me," Sherlock said, breaking him out of his reverie. "The last man who looked at me like that was nearly castrated. I suggest you turn your attention elsewhere."

"Oh? Have I met him then?"

"Why do you think Sebastian Wilkes was so eager to be friendly and cooperative during the Black Lotus case?"

"So..."

"He was. And then he wasn't. I informed you that women were not my area." He never looked up from his phone. "Clearly, you were not paying attention."

"I wasn't hitting on you, you know."

"Yes you were. Subconsciously you still suffer an internal conflict between what you actually want and what you believe you should want by the standards of society. Unfortunately you are still held back by some code of conduct that is clearly Victorian. No matter what you do people will talk. You might as well accept it."

"I..." And he let his words die. What could he say to such a statement. If he protested the contrary, well, it would seem that he was lying. If he agreed, then it would serve to prove the git right. And yet to keep silent-

"It was merely an observation John. No need to dwell too hard on it. I actually think your outdated chivalry is refreshing. It compliments my sociopathic behaviour, thus serving a purpose in the larger picture."

"Because of course if I didn't have a purpose of some sort, I'd be just as boring as everyone else."

"No. Then you would simply be the annoying blogger who adds romance and intrigue into perfectly solid scientific case studies that are better left as such. Rather than those ridiculous stories you seem to twist them into. To think that I would carry sentiment towards a creature like Irene Adler. Clever, yes. Intelligent, yes. But falling in love with her? Clearly John you had missed the mark entirely on that case."

It was an age old argument, John realized. A small glimmer of the man he was shining through the man he now is. And the old soldier was grateful for it. The uncomfortable feeling of having been put under his flat mate's microscope passed in this rant on his biased and uneducated writings. Familiar territory in an argument that, apparently, had lasted beyond their graves and into the present.

"I suppose you'll be giving this latest case another uncreative title then."

"Actually, I was thinking of recycling a classic. Maybe move an s to a different word but otherwise leave it alone. We did, after all, go to Baskerville to look for a hound." Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, then John added. "Again."

**o0o**

He'd woken that morning feeling anxious. He'd showered in the hope that it would ease his uneasy mind. He'd been having the dreams for a while now. Since Sherlock had recovered the painting of the Reichenbach Falls. Neither man had spoken of it at the time. Still hadn't. But John knew it was only a matter of time now. And so, in his own fashion, did Sherlock.

Pleasant dreams, mostly. Memories of backpacking across Europe. Sleeping in a tent beneath the once clear sky and bright stars. Coming across small villages in the county and sampling of the local hospitality they had found there for a few days before moving on.

And each morning that John woke, he knew the days were numbered. The nightly repeats of pleasant memories would soon end - cast in the shadow of a lonely waterfall in Switzerland.

So when he'd checked the text message on Sherlock's phone, he wasn't surprised as to its contents. Neither man had been. They knew the beginning of the end had come. And there would be no train to the continent this time. No mad dash through the country to throw Moriarty off their trail.

"He's back," he had said when he'd handed over the phone. "Sherlock, he's back."

Both men knew the final act in the long game had begun that morning. When the verdict of Not Guilty came down for crimes of which he clearly had committed, John knew the bastard had changed the rules. Had learned from his previous mistakes.

And with that realization came another - one John should have allowed for in the first place considering Sherlock had surprised him with his expansive memory of their previous partnership. Moriarty knew as well. Had known possibly all along.

**o0o**

John sat in his therapist's office. It was raining outside - it rained the last time as well. Not the last time he was sitting across from her. But the last time he's had to face the aftermath.

It was worse, this time. This time he'd been made to watch. Definitive proof that yes... Sherlock Holmes was dead.

There was no ledge under which to hide. There was no climb to the top of a mountain and a hellish five minutes against Colonel Moran. There was only the cracking voice on the other end of a phone before the final drop to the pavement.

He hadn't been able to stay in the flat. Mrs. Hudson, bless, thought it was the normal grief one suffers at the loss of a dear friend (though in her opinion her Baker Street boys had replaced friendship with something more ages ago). In reality he couldn't face being there alone. Rattling about that flat, living a life on repeat. This time he didn't have a woman to hold his hand through the grief. Nor a brother (or in this case a sister) who could talk him out of doing something stupid when his thoughts turned dark. He couldn't even go to the authorities and offer his services as a police surgeon... Such things were outdated and no longer of use when any Tom, Dick, or Molly at the hospital could do the same work for them.

When his time with Ella was up, he didn't bother to schedule another appointment. There was no point, really. Not when she would tell him the same words everyone else had. Try to convince him that despite his unwavering faith, he was wrong about Sherlock Holmes. Tell him it was a lie when he knew it could never have been. When he had been there, had seen it with his own eyes, had lived and breathed the danger and excitement that surrounded the detective.

**o0o**

It had been six months before Mycroft Holmes put in an appearance. But he wasn't thrilled about it. Especially when he was called from a meeting with the Queen herself to attend to a drunken and angry John Watson.

A drunken and angry John Watson who had been causing him trouble for three of the last six months.

When the door opened of the obviously menacing black car opened and the doctor slid into the seat beside him, the stench of alcohol was nearly overpowering to the government official's senses.

"For the love of God Dr. Watson-"

"I figured the only way to get your attention would be to start spilling secrets." Gone was the angry slurring voice Mycroft had heard in the background of a telephone. Replaced with the clear and sober voice of a man who'd not had a single drop of the offending drink of which he smelled.

"Convincing," Mycroft said, his voice devoid of praise. "You should be lucky I did not give the order to have you shot."

"Yeah. Curious about that," John said, pulling at the sleeve of his jumper. "With the headaches I've given you, I should have disappeared months ago. Wonder why you haven't bothered with it. Especially after the Korea incident. How long did that take for you to clear up? A few days at least."

"Come out with it Dr. Watson. I haven't all day and you've forced me to leave a very old friend of mine in-"

"Oh the bloody Queen can sod off. I'm sure she can occupy herself for a while 'till you get back."

"Careful... That's treason."

"I know why you can't do anything about me. I haven't been idle... And I'm sure you've noticed I've picked up more secrets than you thought I would."

Silence as they rode through the streets of London. Ever closer to John's crummy flat far away from the comfortable rooms at Baker Street.

After a few long moments, Mycroft gave a slight nod. "Name your terms, Dr. Watson."

"Tell me how he did it."

"You saw him jump yourself."

"Yes, I did. But I never saw him land. Do keep up, Mycroft. I'm not an idiot."

"No. You're simply well trained like any other house pet."

John didn't even let the comment phase him. Time was, he would get angry. He would let things slip before reigning it back in. But... Sherlock had gone a long way to helping him with self control. "Tell me how he did it, and I'll tell you what I know."

Mycroft watched him closely. Taking in his state, the strength of the smell coming off him. The obvious deception that had fooled the woman he'd had on the good doctor's tail. His hand fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper. Intended to show a nervousness the man didn't feel. The carefully controlled expressions meant to mask his thoughts from the more perceptive of the Holmes brothers.

"And before you flip it around on me think very carefully of the last time you tried that. Give a man a challenge. The most elusive prey with the biggest prize. Tell him to make it talk any way he can. How long did it take him to pull out Sherlock's life story from you? How long before you realized he'd never break?"

Mycroft's hand tightened in his lap. His teeth clenched as his jaw set with the reminder that he himself had fallen for the same trap Irene Adler had laid for his brother.

John's cold, hard voice brought him back from his thoughts again. "You're not the only one keeping tabs on me. He's had his people stationed outside my flat for months. Different faces every single day. But if you'd been dragged around this city at all hours of the night, meeting contacts of various networks, you learn to recognize the signs." He was silent, watching the government official just as closely as he too had been watched. Applying the same methods Sherlock had used on him for the 18 months they had lived together.

"If you already know he survived, why seek the means by which he accomplished it?"

"Because I want to hear it from your own lips. I've already pressed Molly for information. She's told me her part. She didn't realize I was getting her to tell me until it was too late. Another trick I learned from your brother. But then she said a curious little thing. She said to come talk to you... Now if you want to know about Colonel Moran and a few others still at large, I suggest you start talking soon before your driver figures out he's been driving to my old address."

**o0o**

John Watson was many things. Had been many things over the course of his very long trip around the karmic wheel. Try as he might, he could never forget that part of him that made him growl when he was angry. Make him want to fight when he knew it would be better to just walk away. Make him want to obey orders given, and seek praise when he'd done exactly as was expected of him. The part that Sherlock had silently appreciated because it made him loyal. Kind. Understanding.

The burden of a dog's unconditional affection to one who had earned its trust.

During those three long years, he wanted to forget it. He wanted to pretend he was just like everyone else. But he couldn't.

Each time he slipped. Each awkward moment someone took notice was another reminder that they did not understand. That they would think less of him. Treat him differently because of it. He hated that instinct to hunt and to search.

That's why he went to Mycroft Holmes, in the end. Because he could not cope.

Dogs were social animals. And John couldn't take being left alone again. He needed a purpose in the absence of his only real friend. He needed a distraction.

Once he had the vast connections of Mycroft behind him, aided by a few of his own from his days in the army, John started his distraction. For Moriarty wasn't the only one who could change the rules of the game. And John knew Moran would come back. Inevitably Sherlock, thinking himself quite clever in his charade, would show himself. Moran would be waiting. No doubt armed with his former employer's final instructions, should Holmes have wriggled out of death's grasp a second time.

Moran would lay a trap for Sherlock. Sherlock, knowing it is a trap, would undoubtedly lay one for him as well. And John, with Mycroft's reluctant help, would be waiting to spring his own.

**o0o**

Just under three years... Okay, two years and six months, worth of work culminating in the man that was just carted off in the black Sedan. Quietly. Efficiently.

All Sherlock had said, had managed before John had thrown him out of the way was "YOU IDIOT!"

But to John, who lay on the pavement, listening to the sirens (no doubt sent by Mycroft without being summoned), it was music to his ears. He wanted to tell Sherlock that Moran had anticipated his move - or rather had been told to expect it by someone who already knew. Instead, he mentally kicked himself for not realizing Moran wouldn't be alone. So he smiled. Smiled through the pain of the new bullet wound in his side and hoped to hell it didn't hit anything vital. "Not- Not like I-"

"Shut up."

And he did.

**o0o**

John came around to bright lights and hesitant whispers.

With a vice grip on his hand. It hurt, his hand. But he dare not speak a word of it for fear that it would be released. His throat was dry, his lips chapped. How long-

"Two days."

To John Watson those emotionless words forced out were as a holy choir singing.

"If you're going to allow yourself to be shot, I suggest next time ensure your head is in the way. Since clearly it no longer serves to house your woefully inept brain."

Lips cracked as he tried for a weak smile. The words didn't sting - nothing could dampen the drugged haze of whatever wonderful painkiller he was on. But somewhere in his clouded mind he knew they weren't meant to hurt - like the vice grip on his hand, the insult was merely the only way the detective knew how to handle worry. Lash out and damn the consequences.

John barely managed to squeeze that hand back before closing his eyes with the slightest of nods before allowing himself to go back to sleep.

**o0o**

Shouting. Beyond angry. And right on the other side of the door.

It was opened tentatively, then a smiling, but slightly guilty, face peeked around it. "Hey John," she said.

"Was Sherlock here?"

"Yeah. He... didn't want to let anyone in. Even a few nurses. He said they looked a bit shifty and didn't want them too close."

John shook his head with a sigh. "I don't see what all the fuss is about. I'll be going home soon."

She stepped in and closed the door quietly. Carefully she edged closer to the bed. "Well... About that, John. I think, well, Sherlock thinks- And his brother told him you haven't been living..."

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow. At least this time he wasn't surprised in his own surgery. Nor did he have a wife to go back to. The decision was an obvious one, and not even a decision. Not really. "He has to take the upstairs bedroom for a bit," John finally said. "One set of stairs is enough to be getting on with like this, don't you think?"

The woman visibly brightened, obviously thankful that she wouldn't have to go another round with a suddenly overprotective detective.

**o0o**

It had happened fairly quickly - the process of getting comfortable with one another again. Of ordering their lives (rather, of John ordering his) around the other. Awkward, sometimes. As when Sherlock would go off by himself, going undercover and keeping John out of the loop. The moment he'd return John would hover. Sometimes going so far as to pick up Sherlock's legs when he was stretched across the sofa, sit down, and then let them fall across his lap again.

Usually after a rather long case. Or days on end of separation for one reason or another.

Sherlock understood. Of course he had. He'd made a study of his flat mate from the very beginning. Made all the more appealing not by the fact he was useful to the work, nor because of their past connections. But by how he reconciled his two sides. So, when John had started his hovering - a sign of his need for reassurance - he hadn't complained. Instead, he studied it as he had everything else. Scrutinized it. Dissected it. And then filed it away for later.

They hadn't broached the subject of Moran yet. John didn't know where to start and Sherlock didn't want to drive the only one that, despite having made his (false) confession before the jump, never lost sight of the truth. Had refused to believe anything but his own experiences... It hadn't helped that he knew John's most vivid _spiritum memoria_ were, of course, of the men affectionately referred to between them as Watson and Holmes. And all of what that entailed.

But Sherlock didn't bring it up. And John was content, so long as he knew where his friend was, and that he was alive and breathing.

**o0o**

"When were you planning to tell me about your own information network?"

The question had been so out of the blue. Having been caught off guard John dropped his cup, grateful that it hadn't any tea in it just yet. Timing had saved him a proper scalding.

"I don't know what-"

"Honestly. No, Mycroft didn't tell me. He didn't need to. Most of my contacts after the first ten months tended to be ex-military with a common vein of unusual quirks. One of them called you by name. Well..."

John heard movement behind him at the table, and seconds later felt the unmistakable penetrating gaze on his back.

"Not quite by name. It took me a few hours to realize who she meant when she talked about 'Mad Dog'."

John swallowed, turning around to lean against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. "What, exactly, did she say?"

"You don't deny it."

"Of course not. You know I was in the military. You know my... well, you know enough to be sure. And you'd clearly worked out the connections between the contacts. So what did she say?" He was smiling, though it was wary.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed just a little before he turned back to his microscope and spoke as if he were disinterested in the subject altogether. "Apparently, one of the surgeons had been dragged into the infirmary, half dead himself. Upon witnessing the neglect of fellow soldiers, he got up from his cot, hit himself with a few shots of morphine, and limped around to see to them. Gave up his bed to a girl with stumps for legs. And proceeded to bark orders at any passing doctor and nurse like a mad dog. She never learned his name," Sherlock said, listening for any sign of recognition from John.

"But apparently he saved seventeen lives before he was forcibly restrained, then later invalided home. From the approximated dates and description she gave, there could be only one logical answer. Added to the fact that I've seen you work better with only one hand than with two."

He turned the dial on his microscope to adjust the lens, watching the culture of bacteria he'd placed beneath the scope. "I was given sixteen contacts. Number seventeen unfortunately continued to elude me for some time."

"Yeah... well," John muttered, slightly embarrassed. "I couldn't just sit back and let you do all the work."

"You were meant to believe I had died."

"The first few months," John quietly said, turning back to fix himself a cuppa. "I thought you had. They were rough. But I couldn't let myself believe it. I couldn't let myself accept it. Especially when I'd let slip a few national secrets and Mycroft gave me a slap on the wrist. I'm not stupid. I knew there had to be a reason he didn't make me disappear. The only logical reason I could think of at the time was that you had somehow survived, again - despite what I saw with my own eyes. If Mycroft told me what I needed to hear, then I could point him in the direction of people in need of work that would be more than willing to help."

"I didn't need-"

"You needed an assistant. If it couldn't be me, then it had to be someone I could trust to keep you alive long enough to get back here. Plus, I may have implied that if Mycroft tried to get rid of me for knowing too much, you might snap and turn into another Moriarty. You had said before that we were all lucky you hadn't turned your magnificent mind to committing crime."

Sherlock would later reflect on this exchange time and again in an attempt to pinpoint exactly when John had turned the conversation from himself and onto Sherlock's activities for those missing three years.

What puzzled him most of the entire morning had been that John denied nothing, yet still had not explicitly told him anything he hadn't already deduced on his own. It was almost maddening.

**o0o**

"I told you the victim did it! Did I not tell you five years ago-"

"That was a game of Cluedo. And it doesn't count."

"It further proves that the game itself makes a mockery of deductive reasoning."

Sherlock had been like that all afternoon. The entire ride home from Cardiff he'd been reminding John of the many oh-so-creative ways victims could also commit the crimes. This one, while not identical to their investigation of Thor Bridge those many years ago, had in it some similarities. This time on a dock looking out over the bay. Rather than a senator, his wife, and the governess it was former US district attorney, her wife, and the wife's estranged father. No romantic links to the case. But plenty of money and an old will had been involved.

John was just thinking of how to title it when they'd gotten back to the flat. His injuries had long since healed, though he still had to be careful with only the one kidney left to him, yet he was still residing in what had been before Sherlock's bedroom nearly two years later.

He wondered if they would ever switch back when he noticed Sherlock had gone ahead to the room upstairs. Well... he could bring it up later then.

He'd just fixed himself some tea and settled in on the sofa with his laptop, wanting to get a head start on the latest blog entry while the details were still fresh. That was, until he felt the familiar eeriness of someone staring too long. "What Sherlock?"

"I thought we may go for dinner at Angelo's."

"You never eat, so why-"

"Dinner. You did not eat on the train. Nor did you request we stop in the station. Nor have you bothered to find anything in the kitchen. You are going and we are having dinner. Or we can play Cluedo."

"I thought I chucked the game out years ago."

"I'll buy another one."

"Can I just-"

"Now John."

"Why this sudden interest in my eating habits?"

"I had thought you were rather fond of a nice, solid meal after an exceptionally trying case. Or has that habit been lost in the last century as well?"

John stared at him from his place on the sofa with his mouth hanging open. He didn't know what to say, really. He knew Sherlock's particular, singular mind allowed him to remember all his cases. Past and present. But little else, if anything, lingered from the former lives he had led. Little else trickled in, consciously, of the Holmes he had once known.

Slowly, he nodded, shutting down his computer and rising from the sofa. "I'll just get changed then shall I?" It came out as a question rather than the statement he had intended. He stopped halfway to the room that was currently his. "Sherlock?"

"Do hurry John. There is a rather promising program on later this evening I was hoping to catch and I would rather not have to start in the middle."

"You could record it. We do have a DVR."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Would it make you move faster if I offered my services to help get your dressed?"

John had dressed himself within ten minutes.

They'd had dinner. Mostly John, with Sherlock occasionally picking at both their plates. And John was still left wondering exactly how much Sherlock really did remember.

**o0o**

For three months, after every single case, Sherlock had insisted they go have dinner. Or lunch. Or, at times, breakfast. Sometimes, when John wasn't looking, Sherlock just sat and stared at him. Silent and unmoving.

John had assumed it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Retreating into his mind palace to think a while. So he hadn't given it much thought really.

Not until one day, as they were sitting on the sofa together - Sherlock's legs draped across John's lap while he read, which seemed to be a rather normal occurrence since the detective came back from the not-so-dead - Sherlock deigned to speak his mind, for a change.

"When was the last time you went on a date?"

"What?" John asked, blinking at him. Tilting his head slightly in that same manner dogs did when slightly confused by the sounds they heard. "That's a ridiculous question."

"Clearly it bothers you. The question itself, not the answer. You used to despise not having a romantic attachment. You were always bringing women home. Sometimes I met them, most times they just stayed part of the night in your room."

"Well, I can't very well drag them through the flat now can I?" John asked, a bit uneasy. He tried to make it sound sarcastic. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it. Not like there weren't plenty of opportunities-

"Well, if that was the problem you should have said something sooner. I don't mind sleeping upstairs. Conducting some of my more volatile experiments in my bedroom has allowed me to keep the flat itself relatively toxin free, which I know you have appreciated greatly. But I am amenable to changing rooms."

John sighed and closed his book, trying to figure out where all of this was really coming from.

"Look Sherlock, it's really not a big deal."

"You haven't had a date for just over two years. It is a simple question John."

Watching Sherlock's expression, the most subtle changes he doubted anyone would ever notice (except possibly Mycroft) showed him the man was seeking information. Seeking data for a specific, if unknowable reason.

"Why do you want to know? It's a very personal-"

"You were not married when I returned. Not engaged. Not romantically entangled. I had expected-"

"Right. Because when you left I was alone. So you just assumed I'd gravitate to the nearest bit of skirt that would give me a kind word or two."

"That's not what I meant at all. And you know it."

It was then John put two and two together to make four. He didn't know if he should be angry at him, that old anger that burned so brightly after realizing Sherlock hadn't died, that he hadn't really been lost to him, with only the most remote of chances that he might come back, if ever. Because Moriarty had changed the rules. Had added an extra clause with his final orders to Moran. But he also didn't know if he should expose what he'd been harboring since the start. Since he first realized the man who currently had his legs stretched across his lap was indeed his dearest Holmes. A man who, out of Watson's own cowardice and fear, had never known what was in front of him the entire time.

Or perhaps he had... But times were different then. And men couldn't just take up together like that...

John didn't know what it was that possessed him to speak next. Anger, fondness, hurt, fear. A mixture of it all perhaps.

"Right. Because Watson wasn't alone for three years. He had his bloody wife to hold his hand and let him grieve. Until she wasn't there anymore either."

He could feel Sherlock's muscles stiffen, his legs tensing across his lap.

"Oh, yes. Not sure exactly how much you know. Not sure exactly how you knew it then either. But she did die before Holmes came back. I still have nightmares about it. Watching her struggle for breath and unable to do anything more but prescribe more morphine to ease her pain. That last year with her nearly killed him. Because she knew. She bloody KNEW that her death he could easily get past. But three years later he was still..." He started to trail off, his heart beating so fast he thought it might escape his chest and run across the floor, spurting blood everywhere as it fled in fear of breaking. He imagined it would have patches and sticking plasters on it from the places where he'd had to metaphorically patch it up. Sew it back together after Sherlock's jump.

But it was too late. He'd started, not knowing where he'd intended to really go in the first place, and now he had to finish it. Get it out in the open.

"I," he said, because he was still every bit the man Watson ever had been. "I was broken. I'd kept that damned letter because it was the last thing you ever wrote me. Because even though it was telling me goodbye, I couldn't... And then you bloody call me before you jump! You, with your cold, machine-like heart and ice in your veins. You do that to me again, and you don't even stop to really think. I didn't have anyone this time Sherlock. NO ONE. I didn't have some wife waiting at home to pat my hand and tell me it was okay. No one worth pretending for. No one to even pretend with. Because that's what it was with Mary Bloody Morstan, Sherlock. Pretend."

He hadn't realized his hands were shaking until Sherlock had sat up, still awkwardly with his legs trapping the doctor to the sofa. Hands reaching out to cover his own in silence. John swallowed hard, not wanting to meet the eyes that he knew were on him. Always watching him, even when Sherlock thought he didn't know.

"I had not intended to hurt you. And my question was not to upset you."

He turned his head away, trying to hide his face, knowing it was the closest apology he would ever receive from Sherlock Holmes.

"I merely needed to gauge if you were still seeking what passes for an intimate relationship. I had observed you did not date since returning to Baker Street. Had the conversation taken the turn I had intended it to take, I would have gathered useful data that could be applied. I needed to know whether or not to proceed with my attempts to court you, and how you would receive these further attempts."

John blinked, but still did not look at him. He quickly tumbled this... well, from Sherlock it was a rather unexpected topic. "So those dinners..."

"Admittedly, it had started as my attempts to ensure you at least received a decent meal after a case, as I selfishly pull you away before you ever finish eating when we are working. However, I came to the conclusion that it is rather enjoyable. Having dinner, even if I am not hungry."

At this revelation John finally turned his head back to look at him. The expression was the same as always. Bored, and slightly put out that John wasn't keeping up with whatever it was Sherlock already knew and was trying to convey.

"By your own definition, John, a date is _where two people who like each other go out and have fun_. I was basing my attempts on pre-existing data, supplied by yourself."

They stared at one another for a long time before finally, John just couldn't take it anymore. He burst into laughter. Laughter so loud, so forceful it almost seemed like he was having a fit.

"It's not funny John. Why are you laughing? I fail to see the humour in honest attempts at trying to understand tedious human social customs. This is not funny. Stop it this moment."

It only made John laugh even harder, which in turn caused Sherlock to protest even more in annoyed confusion.

Neither man made it to their beds that night. Mainly because John just couldn't keep silent for more than an hour before having another laughing fit again.

**o0o**

It was awkward for a week after that. They'd worked two cases since, but the dinners had stopped. John was disappointed. But he would be damned if spilling his heart open like that would result in walking on egg shells for the rest of their lives.

So he waited. He waited for a moment when Sherlock was out of the flat. And then he went upstairs, grabbed as many of his things as he could get, and brought them back down again. He shoved them in boxes and bags and put them on the bed in his own room.

He could have just gone the subtle route and suggest they go out after a case. Or try and speak directly to him. Openly and honestly. But Sherlock... well, if Watson knew his Holmes, the next move had to be dramatic. It had to be so dramatic that there could be absolutely no question as to when, how, and why. It was the only way to get through that massive ego and thick skull.

He wasn't able to get everything, of course. But all the clothes were taken. Experiments remained. Equipment remained. The bed was stripped but not remade.

What wasn't hung in the closet was put in the wardrobe. What wasn't clothing was left out, and two extra pillows were added to his bed, their pillow cases from an obviously different set left on them.

And so, the bedroom was still a mess when Sherlock had come home, carrying the cooler he often took with him to Barts when he intended to bring home body parts for the fridge.

John had busied himself with the blog, as usual, but was more interested in Sherlock's shouts when he went up the stairs.

When Sherlock came back down, he was livid, but not for the reason John had initially thought. "You had better left the top right drawer empty for my sock index."

John grinned, then sipped his now very cold tea. "That's where I keep my pants. Your socks are in the top left."

**o0o**

They hadn't really shared the room much. At least, not at the same time. Suddenly they were swamped with cases. John secretly suspected Sherlock was purposely loading on more and more to avoid discussing the sudden change John had forced on him.

The onslaught didn't last - three weeks and finally they were in Angelo's. Sherlock actually eating more than pecking for a change. But the silence at their table was unnerving. And John, needing to talk, needing to be social as his true nature dictated, just started talking.

"I didn't date because of you, you know."

Sherlock stabbed at a piece of chicken. "I know. You made that abundantly clear."

"At first it was because, well... I told you. It hurt. But then later, when I knew for sure you were... I didn't want to be attached. It's stupid, I know. Especially since I didn't know if you, well, being a sociopath means you don't exactly feel things the same way-"

"I am well aware of sociopathy John. I don't need a lecture on the subject."

John sighed. "Look. I didn't want to pretend. I just wanted you home, safe. With or without me didn't matter. But if there was a slight chance then... I didn't want to hurt anyone because we both know I always pick you over everything else. And I didn't want anyone to get in the way."

Sherlock set his fork down, attempting to glare across the table at him but only succeeding in a moody pout. "I cannot be what you want me to be John. I cannot pretend to be some deerstalker wearing cane toting Victorian gentleman. I can't be him. I was him. But-"

"But you're broken. Just as much as I am. And we did this to each other. And I'm sorry I was a coward. I'm sorry I didn't act when I should have. That I ignored everything because _people would talk_. That rather than own up to... whatever has always been between us, I took a wife and took the easy way out. By some miracle I'm here now."

"Multiple wives," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded. "Yes. A succession of women. Because back then, this, would have got us both killed and you know it. Now eat your chicken and pick some other less depressing topic to talk about."

Slowly a smile crept on Sherlock's face, and he nodded. Picking up his fork, he stabbed at his chicken again.

They talked, of course, about one of the recent cases. And Sherlock berated John's choice of blog title.

**o0o**

Tired and worn out, Sherlock walked straight into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. It had been just over a week since the brief discussion in Angelo's. Despite sharing a bed, they'd remained rather chaste. Sherlock at first had been worried that the first thing John would try and do would be sex. Given his high libido and the fact that the man had admitted to five years of celibacy (save for the occasional longer showers alone with his hand), it was a logical leap. Also considering that he wasn't human, not on the spiritual level, it was a likely outcome that he would succumb to his canine instincts.

Instead, all John seemed to want was to lie down, curl up against his side, and occasionally have this one place behind his ear scratched. Just past the hairline.

"Budge over, I'm exhausted," Sherlock heard behind him, the words quickly followed by the thudding of shoes hitting the floor and the rustle of clothing.

Sherlock grunted in protest and rolled over onto his back, the movement taking him to his side of the bed. After searching through the drawers and then pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, John joined him with a tired groan. "God, remind me never to try and tackle a sumo wrestler again. They look doughy but that's a bloody mountain of muscle."

"Duly noted," Sherlock replied. Then, just as he had expected, just as had become routine. John closed the gap between them and curled up against his side.

He waited for a few moments to see if John really was going to sleep. Or if he was just resting. There was a difference, Sherlock had noted very early on after moving in together, again as it turned out, that unless John was having a nightmare there was a distinct difference between sleep and rest. When he slept, he was like any other canine. Couldn't be woken even if you dropped a bomb on the flat. But resting John was alert. Focused on his surroundings while letting his mind and body stay still. Relax, to some extent, and doze just a bit. But the slightest creaky stair and he was on his feet, gun in hand, and ready to attack.

"John."

"Hm?"

Resting then.

"Is this enough for you?" He had wondered, again citing past evidence that John was rather amorous when it came to sharing his bed with others. Occasionally quite loud as well. Not that Sherlock was opposed, but data from his own past experiences with Sebastian Wilkes were not in support of the idea. Had turned him off it indefinitely, actually.

"Is what?" came the sleepy reply.

"You know precisely what. I will not explain it to you as if you were a child."

He could feel John's mouth curve into a smile against his shoulder. "That's what I like, you know. You not explaining. It's fantastic when you do though." He moved around a bit to make himself more comfortable. "Last time you always explained every little thing. Sometimes drove me mad. This time you leave some small stuff for me to try and sort out on my own. I'm almost always wrong. But at least I get to try."

"You didn't answer my question."

"More than enough," John said, lifting his head to look right at him. "But if you decided you wanted to collect more data I'm not opposed to the idea. Just wait until I haven't been chasing your arse around London all night and nearly getting flattened by giant human mountains." The tired, but amused tone of voice told Sherlock everything he needed to hear. Honesty, humour, and permission.

"Now go to sleep because I don't intend on letting my human pillow go anywhere for a while."

When John rested his head back down against his shoulder, Sherlock brought his hand up to scratch behind the doctor's ear. Just at the edge of the hairline as he thought about what came next. Little things, familiar things from lives that came before breached the surface. Sometimes, but not always. And now very little repeated. He was out of his depth, and wading in uncharted waters. They had deviated from the familiar, the set paths of their karmic wheels. And it worried him, to some extent that something unforeseen could inevitably ruin the fragile existence they had scraped together.

**o0o**

Lestrade didn't know what to do. Well, he knew what he SHOULD do, but he wasn't sure it would be a good idea.

"Bloody hell John! You damn near sent her to the hospital!"

He wanted to reprimand his sergeant. Put her on a few weeks suspension. But it would be pointless, really, when she'd probably be in hospital.

"She SAW him Lestrade. Saw him trying to bring the kids out of the crates and she shot anyway! What kind of idiot officer does that! The stupid bitch could have killed those kids! Could have killed Sherlock!"

It hadn't helped that John had heard Donovan call him a freak.

Or that Sherlock hadn't told anyone he was going in while the kidnappers were distracted by the police.

"John, you need to calm the hell down mate!" Anderson shouted.

John was nearly on him, too. Lestrade had been halfway between them before the ex-soldier stopped in his tracks at the sound of a voice.

"John, stop. Anderson isn't worth it."

"At least charge him!" Anderson snapped. "Assault on an officer! Bloody savage!"

John couldn't help but growl to the man behind Lestrade. "She's had that coming from me for years," he finally said. "She's lucky it's just an arm. Lucky I didn't throw her from a sodding rooftop!"

Her gun arm. But no one mentioned it.

She was the bad seed that stirred up doubt among the police. But no one mentioned that, either.

Lestrade held his hands up, cuffs in one of them. "I'm going to have to bring you in mate. Nobody liked what she did, but she's still-"

"I know." He was slightly calmer, knowing Sherlock close by. That Donovan was well away from the scene. That the kids were rescued. Everyone that mattered was safe.

"I'll see you in the morning, John," Sherlock said as his friend allowed himself to be cuffed. But only by Lestrade. No one else was brave enough to go near him.

"Don't be too long with the bail. And don't set fire to the flat," John said before being led away. He stopped only once, to growl at a flinching Anderson.

**o0o**

Any time Donovan was put on a scene, John was banned from getting near.

But any time Sherlock was called to appear, Donovan was banished to anywhere else but there.

Anderson made a point of no longer joining in on the occasional drug busts, and kept his interactions with John Watson to the bare minimum. Others thought it was petty, and would eventually run its course.

But Sherlock knew better. It was an instinct reaction. Those underlying traits that no amount of lifetimes could erase. No amount of training or experiences or words could or would do. It was that base, animalistic drive of an animal protecting its master.

"You're wrong, you know," John said, creeping up behind him in the kitchen. "It falls more in the realm of protecting a pack than protecting a master. Two completely different courses of action."

"Really?" he asked.

John nodded, leaning forward to peer over Sherlock's shoulder at the petri dish he'd been examining before his thoughts derailed.

"I wasn't aware I'd spoken my thoughts aloud."

"You didn't. But that's just what people tend to assume. The whole obedience thing. A dog's master commands their loyalty and protection. Trains them to do it automatically using verbal and non-verbal cues. But if the dog is pushed too far, it will bite the hand that feeds it. Especially when the dog sees the master as a danger to the pack." He shrugged, and watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "Sort of like... our version of the whole human concept of spirit groups and families and such."

"You've never responded this way to Donovan's insults before."

"Yes. But before, she wasn't shooting at you and the children you were trying to save, Sherlock. Nobody on the force is going to do anything about her behaviour. And it's been going on for years."

"John-"

"I definitely could have handled it better. But I had to stop her shooting at you. Shouting wasn't going to do a damn thing, and even Lestrade couldn't get her to knock it off." He couldn't change his reaction, which had at the time surprised even himself. It was his first real slip up, at least in public. "Plus, I don't like cats."

**o0o**

He hadn't imagined that, if they had ever done such a thing, that it would have started off the way it did. With crap telly, dim sum, a lull in cases, and a conversation about _spiritum memoria_ that were not set in a Victorian Baker Street.

John couldn't even be sure what it was he'd said that had Sherlock dragging him back to their bedroom.

Somewhere between being a vicious hunting dog during the reign of Henry the 8th and some poor servant during the American Revolution, the man's eyes just lit up. The scowl of concentration gone from his face. John always liked that look - the one he only gave when he'd pulled all the missing links in the chain together. Solved whatever puzzle had been plaguing his thoughts.

And now, sticky and covered in god knows what and their dinner, they lay on the ruined sheets. Limbs entwined and a stupid grin plastered across John's face. "That was-"

"You howl."

"What?"

"Interesting. I've only ever heard you growling before."

"You pervert. You've been listening to me in the shower!"

"Hard to miss when I walk past towards the kitchen." Sherlock caught an elbow in the side. Not too hard. Just a little playful shove. "But you do howl. Not that I'm complaining. Simply an observation."

John was thankful his cheeks were already flushed. That his breath was just now getting back under control. Otherwise, his embarrassment would have been, well, embarrassing.

"If anyone asks about my neck, you'll be explaining why it looks like I've been attacked by a bloodthirsty animal."

John was still laughing the following day. Especially when Mycroft commented on the appalling splashes of color just visible below his younger brother's jaw.

**o0o**

"You're not as young as you used to be," John said behind him, doubled over trying to catch his breath. They'd chased the suspect across the village, through the forest, and to the lake before they'd finally fallen too far behind to catch him.

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

John wiped his hands on his thighs, then pulled himself upright, chest still heaving. "It means I'm too old for this, and so are you." He gestured toward the lake. "We're never going to catch the bastard on foot. Not like this."

"Damn!" Sherlock snapped, pacing back and forth on the shore like an agitated dog. "We nearly had him at the bridge!"

"We'll have another chance tomorrow. He won't skip town without the stone. Which is still tucked safely away in Mazarin Lodge. Somewhere. All we have to do is not cough this time."

"I did not cough."

"You did. Because you have a cold. And refuse to take anything for it. Your lung capacity's compromised. Your throat is sore. Your sinuses are packed. And the way you've been coughing you might end up cracking a lung before we get back to Baker Street. And if you keep looking at me like an indignant child Sherlock so help me I'll spike your tea with enough cough syrup to knock out an elephant."

Sherlock glared viciously at him, and not for the first time resented the fact his partner was still an overprotective guard dog at heart. "Fine," he snapped out finally, causing John to sigh in relief. "But I'm not eating or drinking anything you bring me."

"Fine. Now come on. We've a long hike back to the lodge and you look like you're about to keel over in the underbrush."

**o0o**

Retirement.

They both knew it would come eventually.

The only question was... did they remain in the building Mrs. Hudson had left to them, or did they leave London for a quieter end to their years.

Neither man had made mention of it. Both knew what it meant. John's health wasn't the greatest anymore. He'd stopped joining Sherlock in the legwork on cases a while ago. Easing himself out of the routine until he was left at home with the research. To write up the cases as Sherlock brought them home and completed them.

"I'd thought you'd be the first to start falling to pieces," John had said one evening. There hadn't been a case for a month. And Sherlock... Well... he hadn't started going stir crazy from boredom. Not yet, anyway. A month... that was a new record. "Given the poor health you'd had near the end the last time."

"Well," the detective had said from his seat opposite, turning a page in the scientific journal in his lap. "Last time you only nagged me about my addictions rather than intervene. As a result of your active role in my sobriety, I'm in rather good health for a man my age."

John gave a soft laugh. "Well, at least you don't take those dreadful blankets with you everywhere."

"Why bother when I have a life sized space heater following me around?" He gave a faint smile as he continued to read his magazine. "I suppose," he said after a few long, quiet moments. "The only question left to us is where to go from here."

John had given thought to the matter time and again over the last year and a half. Since he'd started noticing the strands of silver in the black curls he so dearly loved. Since those brilliant grey eyes started to shine out from a face that, though aged remarkably well, still bore evidence of sleepless nights and the passage of time. "Honestly Sherlock," he said at last. "I don't really care. So long as we don't have bees."

"I'm going to have bees, John."

"I hate bees."

"You knew when you agreed to move in that I would one day have bees. Yet here you are, and we are going to have bees."

"Like hell we are. Those little shifty bastards hurt like hell. And you only had bees so you could torment the hell out of me every time I came to visit!"

Sherlock couldn't hide his smile even if he wanted to. "One bee for every incident where one of your wives threw me out of your house. I believe it was more than fair to say I had many, many bees."

"You had... For every... Sherlock, now you're just being silly."

When they moved to Sussex six months later, Sherlock had his bees.

And John was constantly cursing every time he had to go to the back garden for anything.

**o0o**

Despite knowing every little thing about him. Despite having to live with the fact that in some areas, John knew more than he did. And accepting the fact that John really did hate his bees (but allowed them due to the part of the argument where John won the kitchen and banished Sherlock's experiments to what was meant to be a guest room in the cottage), there was still one thing Sherlock did not know about John.

They'd often reminisced about their current lives, and argued about why certain things failed to progress in the ones they had shared previously. Sherlock knew, understood, and accepted without question nor complaint the fact that John Watson, pillar of humanity, was in fact supposed to be a dog. Had started out as a dog. And still, on occasion, reacted like a dog.

What he did not know was at what point did John the Dog decided to be John the Human. His extensive study over the course of the long years since first learning of John's secret had given rise to the idea that there had to have been an event so powerfully important that prompted the decision. It was not an easy thing to do, to force oneself into a shape never meant for them. To make themselves change, to train themselves to be something they were not.

He had tried to get it out of him before. With prying questions and leading commentary. But it was for naught. It was the one thing that, try as he might, Sherlock could not force out of him. And he had tried everything.

Well... nearly everything.

They were sitting by the fire, one particularly cold night. John's joints were doing him no favors, and Sherlock's book was holding little interest.

"I could really use some tea," John said from his seat beside him. "Would you? It's just... My knees."

Sherlock had closed his book with a nod and set it in his chair when he stood. When he returned, he found John had moved from his chair by the fire to the sofa nearby. As the ex-detective had moved through the room, he stopped by the chairs long enough to pick up his book.

He gave him the tea before wordlessly filling the empty space beside him.

"Blanket?" John asked, his tired, wrinkled face smiling at him with both his hands wrapped around the mug. The tea, Sherlock noted, was not wanted for thirst, but rather so that arthritic hands could leech the warmth from the ceramic that contained it. Seeking relief in such a small comfort. With another small nod, Sherlock pulled the afghan, one that had been Mrs. Hudson's... but they'd never bothered to return it to her before she'd left them for the next life on her path.

He spread it out across their laps, sitting so that what little heat his still too-thin form produced could be put to good use by the man beside him. Just as he always had in these later years, John shifted around until he became comfortable. Then rested his head against a bony shoulder and sighed when the arm attached to it came down to rest around him.

Sherlock thought, as he read, about how to ask. How to pull that last little nugget of information out of him. He was so consumed by his thoughts he hadn't noticed when John had started to speak. Not until he felt the tickle of hair under his nose from when the old doctor had, as a last resort, craned his neck as far as it would go to try and get his attention.

"What?"

John smiled, a shadow of his youth hidden in winkled folds of aged flesh. But it wasn't a joyful smile. It wasn't the gleeful smile that greeted his deductions in that cab ride to the Pink Lady all those years ago. Or that contented smile that had graced that face as he drifted to sleep from only an innocent cuddle and a scratch behind the ear.

It was... sad. A look Sherlock rarely saw on his partner's face. And had only seen reach his bright blue eyes once before.

"What?" he asked, softer this time. His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried his best to deduce what was bothering him.

"I killed a man."

"You were a soldier. More than once. Half a dozen times at the least. Of course you-"

"No. When I... the last time I was a dog. I killed a man." He frowned. "That's what you wanted to know wasn't it? Why I chose to change. To be human."

"John..."

He settled back into Sherlock's side and took a sip of his tea. "I was a hunting dog. But you knew that." His voice was quiet as he spoke, and Sherlock tightened his arm around him in both comfort and encouragement. After all, he HAD wanted to know. And John had been around him long enough to learn to read at least him as easily as he read everyone else.

"It was worse than that. I still have nightmares about it. He had it coming for what he did. What I had to watch him do. I was trained damn near from birth to be a vicious, relentless, killing machine. It was my job to track down animals. To bring back the carcass of anything my master killed for supper. But he was just as cruel as he'd trained me to be. He killed his family, you know. Didn't mean to - but he was a drunkard. Beat them to death in a blind drunken fury."

Sherlock listened intently, but could not stop himself from ticking off various bits of data that before had never quite matched up. Characteristics and reactions that simply did not make sense to the situations he and John had been in. Now John's short temper, and the violent outburst against Sally Donovan made perfect sense. As did the struggle to maintain the appearance of perfect normalcy during the Victorian era in which they had once lived. Military service not only had been the most logical decision, but it had been the only alternative.

Once those and other various pieces of data were realigned in his mind palace, he returned his attention to John's words.

"...stable boy."

Sherlock frowned. He'd missed something... But didn't want to say so for fear that John would just stop. Close up again and his opportunity for this last little puzzle piece would be lost to him forever.

"He was just a kid, really. And when I saw him go after the boy, I snapped. I attacked and I didn't stop until he wasn't moving anymore. I was hurt, my master was dead, but the boy was safe. Frightened, but safe."

His frown deepened, and he was glad John could not see his face. Something he'd said sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"I hadn't wanted him to get close. I was hurt. Every human I'd ever known was... well, I had every reason to be frightened. But he was so kind." John sighed, taking another sip of his tea to soothe his throat from all the talking. "He'd just watched me tear a grown man to ribbons and he still took me home to his mother."

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Did that body fully recover? From the incident?"

He shook his head. "No. Had a bit of trouble running. I always have, now that I think about it. One of my hind legs was lame after that. Didn't mean I sat around all the time. I followed that kid around all the time, when I could. He was clever. Always tinkering. Finding new ways to shirk his chores. He was lonely though. I suppose that's why he never sent me off after I was well. We looked out for each other. Went everywhere together. I still remember the last time I saw him. One of my brighter dreams, even though I'd died." He took another sip of his tea before leaning forward just enough to set it down on the low table close by. Settling back in against a very quiet, contemplating Sherlock, he sighed. "I'd been hit by a cart. Had to shove him out of the way. Didn't have the sense God gave to a gnat when he saw something interesting on the trail. But that was just his way. At the time I really couldn't understand it."

"Now you do," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"Yes. Because he's still an idiot that stops on the side of the road on the way to the market because he saw some ridiculous rare flower that isn't indigenous to the West Country." Sherlock turned his head to look down at him, having heard the smile in his voice. The very clear amusement doing a terrible job of hiding behind it. "Dogs," John said, "Don't get to stay here very long. A few lives, and then they move on. All of their lessons learned and their karmic wheels stop turning. Hell, even cats get to stay longer. But you're so clever you're stupid, and you'd keep getting yourself killed if someone didn't keep shoving you out of the way of carts, mobs, cars, and bullets."

John turned his face to look up at him. Watching as gray eyes lit up. The light of an epiphany - that brilliance he hadn't seen since their last case before retirement. The frantic pace of thoughts whizzing by as Sherlock's thoughts unraveled and rewove themselves into new patterns. New chains of logic and fact. Theories replaced with solid and irrefutable data. To be concluded by that manic grin not even age and time could ever erase.

"John Watson, the moment your old arthritic bones stop hurting, I believe you are long overdue many apologies. I will express my gratitude for the numerous lives you have wasted taking care of me-"

"I wouldn't exactly say wasted-"

"Until one or both of us has broken a hip, fractured at least one leg, and possibly a few ribs. After an adequate recovery period, I will continue."

"You could just get rid of the bees. Instead of trying to break every bone in my body with sex."

"No John. The bees must stay."

**o0o**

He hadn't been paying much attention. How could he when he'd just discovered what could have been the most significant find in over a century. Bees. Real, living, buzzing bees!

Had he been paying attention rather than crouching in the grass with pad in hand, jotting down notes and observations of this most extraordinary of extinct creatures, he would have noticed the children coming up the path from the lake. He would have noticed the boys from his class who had teased him for his interest in science and music and archaeology.

Unfortunately, he was absorbed in his study of these winged creatures that had, many assumed, died out ages ago.

He felt the rock hit him in the back of the head, causing him to fall forward to his knees. Rock and twigs digging into his skin as his weight was suddenly shifted.

"Oi! You leave him alone!"

He looked over his shoulder to see a rather angry boy chucking rocks right back at them. "Come on!" he'd shouted. "I can do this all day! You bloody pack of cats! Get outta here!"

He'd kept picking up more and throwing them until they'd had enough and scattered.

"Bloody useless cats. Think they're so special because they're so bloody clever."

He stood up, brushing his knees off and checking to see how bad it was. Just a few scrapes. But his bees had gone. Disappeared in the excitement. Well, he'd just have to come back. Again and again before school would start. Hopefully, the little creatures would come back.

"Here."

He looked up to see the boy holding out a small, flat sheet. It was a bit crumpled, but easily recognizable as a skin plaster. "Not my skin tone," he said, pointing to his pale knees.

"So? Not like it'll stay forever. 'Sides, you gotta do something. Don't want to bleed all over the place."

"It's just a scratch."

"Take 'em."

"I don't-"

He growled. Gray eyes narrowed as he took in the boy with the plasters again. "Did you just-"

"So what if I did? Gonna do something about it?"

He shook his head and bent down to get his pad. "Just surprised, is all," he replied. "We don't get dogs around here often."

"Yeah. I can tell."

"My best friend was a dog. Is a dog. If I ever find him again."

He smiled, but still held out the plasters. "Go on. I've got plenty more back home. I'm always gettin hurt, so my mum makes me take some with me whenever I go out."

He took the plasters and, under the warning blue gaze he slapped them on. Pressing the edges down to ensure a nice, tight seal. "There. I used them. Happy?"

"Very." He offered his hand, this time empty. "I'm Edward."

The grey eyed boy scrutinized the hand a moment. Dirty nails, clearly he'd been digging in the dirt to get more rocks to throw. Palms were sweaty - as was his brow. Yet the weather wasn't too warm. His face wasn't flushed from running nor activity. Nervous then. Clearly he wanted to be liked. Social defect of the dog spirits. Then again, they were very loyal very quickly. And depending on the breed they had the potential to be rather intelligent. More so than most humans he knew.

He took his hand. "Arthur," he replied. "This way. I found some bees in the glen and need to record the data while it's still fresh in my mind."

"Bees?" Edward asked. "Really?!"

"Yes. Now do keep up Edward. Perhaps if we hurry, my brother won't eat all of mother's special cake."

* * *

**A/N1 - LATIN STUFF**

_spiritum memoria_ - spirit memory  
_spiritum animalem_ - animal spirit

**A/N2 - MISC STUFF**

_Arthur and Edward_ - _Arthur_ is a reference to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; _Edward_ is a reference to Edward Hardwicke, the second Watson in the Granada series.

I dunno why, but I just figured John and bees don't mix.

_The Problem of Thor Bridge_ - That one story where the victim really did do it, and was referenced in the show by a game of Cluedo. Yeah. I totally went there in this with that random case in Cardiff with the ex DA, her wife, and the estranged father.  
_Mazarin Lodge_ - reference to the story about the theft of the _Mazarin Stone_ which was primarily a Mycroft and Watson adventure.

John's a dog. He hates cats. Sally Donovan's spirit is a cat. Sebastian Moran's was a tiger. They're all annoying cats to John.


End file.
